I thought I'd experiment a bit with the pairing of different uses of speech (rhetorics) with silence, to see if the experience of silence varies depending on what kind of language it follows. After working an 8ish-hour shift at Slim Goodies, I returned home and gladly accepted a break from speech, and decided to make it one with intention. As I showered and began to unwind, I noticed something peculiar. Though I was very much alone in my very quiet house, I was still experiencing a carrying-over of the background noise of the restaurant. The din of the diner chatter and clattering of plates continued to play, like a ghostly record. The strange echoes in my ears were like the scent of pancake batter and oil soaked into my clothes and nose, the film of grease on my skin, like a sticky residue on my brain. As I lay down to nap, as I relaxed and let go of consciously-directed thought, the din became louder and the script I had repeated all day even started to surface in floating fragments: "...how do you want your eggs...", etc.
While there are certainly moments of a more quiet mind than others, and this is something that can be sought to expand through meditation, I am becoming very sure that I have never myself experienced silence, inside or outside. And even when refraining from speech, it is very rare that my internal dialogue of language ceases. The word "silence" seems to me much like the word "nothing"--in that exists in constructed concept, but not in lived experience. Or perhaps I can be proven otherwise? Takers?
I find contemporary composer John Cage's interpretation of silence to resonate with my own. Silence is not about a void or an absence, but the sounds, however seemingly insignificant, that fill a space (traffic). I would just like to supplement his definition for my own purposes to include the sound from inside the mind in addition to the ambient. That is music, and that is language: the-everything-in-between.
"John Cage on silence"
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcHnL7aS64Y&feature=related
And a rendition of his infamous piece 4'33":
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Words weld human beams
A few weeks ago I had a day off, and so returned to my trial of silence. I wanted to test how I could get by without language in the public realm beyond Loyola's campus, and beyond interaction with only peer students, teachers, and friends. I started with the streetcar. While there is no real need for speech in the smooth systemization of waiting at a pictorially communicative sign of designation, climbing on board the car when it arrives, guiding my dollar bill into the slot in accordance with the red arrows, and finding an empty seat among strangers--I've been socialized, I know how to do these things-- I did find something lacking. Even just a simple greeting to the driver, a moment shared with the person I share the bench seat with, or a "Thank you" to hear an "Alllright" when I was getting off would have combatted that sense of isolation that I think is prevalent in many forms of public transportation where speech is not required to pass. The most thorough of public transportation systems post signs everywhere with arrows, codes, and pictures to guide passengers (think subway and bus stations, airports, etc.) with minimal need for human assistance, while the least thorough send you through a circular maze in which you can't seem to locate someone to ask where you are going. And so I could not speak to break this tension of separation from my fellow travelers and captain, but a smile would have to do.
I arrived at the Loyola bookstore a bit nervous-- I had never had to purchase anything without at least a small exchange of verbs. I pulled out a pad of paper, upon which I had written "I need a copy of 'When Species Meet' for the class Environmental Theory (used if possible). Teacher is Schaberg. Thank you." I was surprised that the woman did not seem to think (or act, since I can't claim access to another's thoughts) that there was anything out of the ordinary about my form of request, and obliged. I also wrote below it "And can I return this please?" referring to another book I had brought, and this too was carried out smoothly. When it came time to pay, I was asked if my card was credit or debit. I tried to point to the latter as if her words were still hanging in the air in front of us, but I suppose from her spatial angle, the latter looked like the former. "Credit?" I shook my head, pointed back again in the floating sentence. She asked if it was debit, and I nodded to confirm. When we were finished with the transaction. I circled the "Thank you" written across my yellow notebook and pointed to it with emphasis. This time, she smiled.
I thought about this exchange for many days, about how much worse it could have unfolded. I wondered why she was utterly nonplussed about a conversation held entirely on paper and with unskilled hand signs. Perhaps she thought I had laryngitically lost my voice, was physically incapable of uttering, and took pity on my condition. Or working in a bookstore on college campus had come to expect such silly experiments. Or maybe she just thought I was weird, and so was kind.
I decided it would be a good idea to go back and ask her today. I asked her if she remembered me, that time someone came in and wasn't talking and asked her for a book with a note and if she thought that was weird. I could see in her eyes that she was straining to remember, but she said she did and no, she didn't think it was weird, that that's how people come to her, lot's of people do that. Her answer perplexed me, and I doubted if she really remembered the interaction, being that it had taken place several weeks before. I thought it possible that she was confusing our interaction for perhaps the many instances students bring with them the titles of the books they need scrawled across paper. Or maybe there is an underground society of silent students at Loyola I just don't know about. The most compelling hypothesis I could come up with was because it had been a smooth transaction and words were still used, though not in the spoken form, that she simply hadn't really registered that anything was out of place. Curious.
I arrived at the Loyola bookstore a bit nervous-- I had never had to purchase anything without at least a small exchange of verbs. I pulled out a pad of paper, upon which I had written "I need a copy of 'When Species Meet' for the class Environmental Theory (used if possible). Teacher is Schaberg. Thank you." I was surprised that the woman did not seem to think (or act, since I can't claim access to another's thoughts) that there was anything out of the ordinary about my form of request, and obliged. I also wrote below it "And can I return this please?" referring to another book I had brought, and this too was carried out smoothly. When it came time to pay, I was asked if my card was credit or debit. I tried to point to the latter as if her words were still hanging in the air in front of us, but I suppose from her spatial angle, the latter looked like the former. "Credit?" I shook my head, pointed back again in the floating sentence. She asked if it was debit, and I nodded to confirm. When we were finished with the transaction. I circled the "Thank you" written across my yellow notebook and pointed to it with emphasis. This time, she smiled.
I thought about this exchange for many days, about how much worse it could have unfolded. I wondered why she was utterly nonplussed about a conversation held entirely on paper and with unskilled hand signs. Perhaps she thought I had laryngitically lost my voice, was physically incapable of uttering, and took pity on my condition. Or working in a bookstore on college campus had come to expect such silly experiments. Or maybe she just thought I was weird, and so was kind.
I decided it would be a good idea to go back and ask her today. I asked her if she remembered me, that time someone came in and wasn't talking and asked her for a book with a note and if she thought that was weird. I could see in her eyes that she was straining to remember, but she said she did and no, she didn't think it was weird, that that's how people come to her, lot's of people do that. Her answer perplexed me, and I doubted if she really remembered the interaction, being that it had taken place several weeks before. I thought it possible that she was confusing our interaction for perhaps the many instances students bring with them the titles of the books they need scrawled across paper. Or maybe there is an underground society of silent students at Loyola I just don't know about. The most compelling hypothesis I could come up with was because it had been a smooth transaction and words were still used, though not in the spoken form, that she simply hadn't really registered that anything was out of place. Curious.
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